Incidental Destiny
by Merthallum
Summary: John Watson moves into Baker Street and is having dreams about the war, only they are not only centered around his time in Afghanistan. There is an element in them that takes him off to a different, strangely familiar world, yet he does not understand why. Meanwhile him and Sherlock hope to solve a mystery that he himself is somehow involved in. Warning: slash and some dark themes
1. Chapter 1

**Note: This story starts off following John's storyline in "A Study in Pink" with a few alterations for the sake of the overall plot but soon digresses into its own story after a couple chapters. Some dialogue in these chapters is taken from "A Study in Pink" and does not belong to me. Just the writing, plot and general ideas, as usual.**

 **I put this story in the mystery genre because it does indeed have a mystery inside it, but I wanted to note that the mystery ultimately plays only a minor part in the overall story, and is solved long before the story ends. There is also a somewhat supernatural element as well (if supernatural is even the correct term here), since, obviously, it's a Hobblock story and will deal with characters having past lives and whatnot, so bear with me.**

 **Also note that I am American, and while I try to be as British as I can, unfortunately I'm not perfect. If you see any inconsistencies in my writing (incorrectly used terms and whatnot) please inform me so that I can fix them as soon as I can. :)**

 **Please enjoy!**

* * *

 _The cold wind swept past my face as I sat there, ears numbed from the breeze, body weak from exhaustion, and eyes blurred from the hot tears that beset them. His body lay limp next to mine: cold and pale, smothered in a jumbled mixture of wet and dried blood. A cruelly vacant expression lay white across his face, and his final, parting breath had risen into the air and was now being carried away by the wind from the East, and the only thing I knew in that moment, the only thing I could comprehend was grief. No memories flooded my vision, no regrets clouded my judgements, no single thought was able to pierce its way into my mind. There was only the insurmountably overwhelming manifestation of grief. Draining. Crushing. Dominating. What have I gotten myself into?_

 _From far away I heard the sound of swords clashing, men screaming as blades ran through them. Carnage littered the field, the colour of red stained rocks and grass, and I lay there in the midst of it all, cowering over his body, resembling—to onlookers—just one more dead body amidst the rest. I heard an explosion in the distance. Then another one: much closer this time. Suddenly the clanging sound of swords disappeared and instead transformed into gunfire. The scenery changed, and suddenly I was surrounded by soldiers. Soldiers that I knew; soldiers I respected and cared for. Everything was so loud; on top of the gunfire was the gruesome sound of screaming soldiers. Some lay lifeless, but worse were the ones who weren't so lucky, wailing, under the affliction of pain, like children. Blood gushed forth from their battle wounds as they strained their eyes to look up at me, asking me, no, begging me to just let them die. It was agonising to witness. Suddenly another explosion went off, this time only a couple metres away, and I was thrust back by the force of it. My ears rang, and my heart hammered away inside my chest as everything went bleary._

I awoke suddenly, my heart sending deafening pulses of energy that rang in my ears. The lingering feeling of despair still gripped tightly to my chest. _It was a dream. It was a dream. It wasn't real._ But we all know how powerless rationality is in when pitted against fear. And the danger, the sorrow, the distress, it's all somehow so much more vivid when extracted from a dream. Delirium repels reason, and for a little while, the real world is ductile and the dream is reality. That was how I felt in that moment. Despair and grief and anxiety, it was all so certain.

I sat upward, clutching the sheets of my bed and trying frantically to breathe at a normal rate. Time passed slowly, but eventually I was able to come back to grips with reality. I saw that the sun was beginning to rise, sending invasive tufts of light through my window, spoiling the dark privacy of my apartment. It stirred me up a bit and helped to clear away some of the lingering grogginess from my dream. Without any intention of going back to sleep after this incident, I overcame my haziness and sat up on my bed, legs dangling off the side. Traces of the nightmare poked incessantly at the back of my mind, and so trying desperately to ignore them, I sat there in a mindless stupor for an indeterminate amount of time. I had no desire to get up or to eat or to write on my blog. I had no desire to do anything, really.

"PTSD," they said. "Depression," they said. " _Life_ ," I said.

I didn't believe in mental illnesses. For my part, I considered the act of putting a label on a certain state of mind was apt to induce more harm than good. It's like how a butcher wouldn't name the pig that he was preparing to slaughter because it would give an unpleasant sense of reality to what he was going to do. Names have a way of giving a certain definitiveness to things, and labels are more powerful than people really give them credit for. Diagnosis was worse. Diagnosis meant that not only would I be officially labelled as "depressed," but that it would forever show on my record; any job I applied, for any trouble I found myself in, wherever I went I would always be "at risk of depression," and that was almost worse than any of the other shit I've had to go through. If I wasn't being constantly branded as "ill" or "unstable," then maybe I could actually get over myself for a day. Why couldn't people _understand_ that?

Eventually, however, as the sun was beginning to shine bright enough to light up my apartment, I pulled myself out of my stupor and finally stood up, grabbing the cane that was leaning against my bed. I was very not ready to seize the day. The familiar sensation of hunger gripped at the pit of my stomach, but for some unexplainable reason the thought of eating was distasteful to me. So, after grabbing a small apple from the fridge and warming up a cup of tea, I shuffled over to my desk and pulled out my laptop. Already the website for my blog was pulled up on the screen. I tried to think of what to write, but my mind was blank. What was there to write about? My life was so mundane and boring, and the only supposedly interesting things about it were not anything I was readily willing to put up on my blog for the world to see. I stared at the screen for a little bit before giving up (perhaps a bit prematurely) and shutting my laptop mainly out of frustration at the fact that my life was so bloody boring that I couldn't even come up with a single bloody thing to write about.

Ella would be disappointed in me, but I really didn't care at the moment. What was it her business anyways? I sighed. It wasn't that therapy didn't help, it's just... well, it didn't. No matter what I did, how I went about my day, what I recorded in my blog about adjusting to civilian life, it didn't change the fact that I was a soldier, and I was constantly afflicted by my blasted psychosomatic limp due to PTSD. Again, with the labels.

I looked around my apartment and realised how unbelievingly sad it looked. I rubbed my eyes with the tips of my fingers. _I need to get out of here, this place is so goddamn dreary. How about a walk. I can take a nice stroll down to St. Bart's and enjoy some fresh air._ Of course the idea of taking a long walk was much easier than actually getting up off my arse and doing it. The pain in my leg was especially prominent today, and suddenly the idea of taking a walk was unappetizing. But I knew that in the end it would be for the best. I hadn't gotten out of my apartment in a while except to attend my regular therapy sessions, so I grabbed my cane I finally staggered out of my apartment.

* * *

I was immediately glad of my decision, for the morning turned into quite a beautiful afternoon as I walked down to Bart's. A chill breeze swept over me and it felt quite relaxing. It was long since I had felt a breeze like this one, pure and pristine, untouched by the contaminated feeling of a stuffed apartment. I hated that apartment. It was a cage. The only reason I was still stuck there was because it was really my only choice for the time being. I was currently unemployed and could not afford my own flat, not in London anyway, leaving me to bench off the British Government. Of course I would get a job, but with my leg being in less than ideal condition and recovery from the war and all….well, you get the picture.

My mind was a mess as I plodded down the street, trying earnestly to enjoy the scenery.

Somewhere behind me I heard someone calling my name. "John! John Watson!"

I turned to look behind me and saw a pudgy, bespectacled man with a flashy tie walking up to me.

"Stamford," he gestured to himself, "Mike Stamford, we went to Bart's together."

"Yes, yes, of course I remember, Mike, hello." I held out my hand and we engaged in a gruff handshake. I wasn't really expecting to meet with anyone today, but the idea wasn't entirely unwelcome.

"I heard you were abroad getting shot, lad, what happened?"

I stared at him briefly, a bit put off by the question. "I got shot," I answered tonelessly.

He looked at me a bit awkwardly, but quickly recovered, asking "Well, why don't we get some coffee, you and me? We can catch up, talk about the old times, that nonsense."

"Yeah, yeah that sounds good," I replied, only half fudging my response. To tell the truth, the idea of sitting down and chatting with someone on equal grounds sounded appeasing. It would be nice to talk outside of therapy sessions (or more accurately, in my mind, drilling sessions). So after grabbing some coffee we sat down at a nearby bench and began to simply chat. Normally, I'm not a fan of small talk, but it was pleasant, and it got me out of my comfort zone, which I realised then that I really needed.

"So, you're still at Bart's then?" I asked after a short silence.

"Teaching, yeah. Bright, young things like we used to be. God, I hate them." We shared a short chuckle. "What about you, just staying in town til you get yourself sorted?"

"Well, I can't afford London on an army pension."

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else," he speculated, quite truthfully. "That's not the John Watson I know."

"Yeah, well, I'm not the John Watson y—" I faltered over my words, holding them back, trying to cover up the aggression in my tone, but it wasn't any good. Being in the army, being in a war, it changes a person, and people needed to understand that. I wasn't going to be the playful chap they knew in college that flirted with all the pretty girls and pulled pranks on my classmates and bubbled with youthful energy. I just wasn't.

We both looked down at the ground before Mike spoke up again. "Couldn't Harry help?"

I laughed in a vaguely mocking tone. "Yeah like that's gonna happen."

"I don't know," he retorted, " you could … get a flatshare or something."

"C'mon, who'd want me for a flatmate?"

He looked back at me with a queer look in his eyes, before he grinned and chuckled.

"What?" I asked, half annoyed.

"Well you're the second person to say that to me today."

I gazed at him, struck with curiosity. "Who's the first?"

* * *

 **Please review and tell me what you think! I read all reviews and benefit greatly from hearing all of your thoughts. What did you like? What could use some change? I very much appreciate constructive criticism so please don't hesitate to tell me what you thought! Thanks!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys, sorry it took a while for me to get chapter two up, but here it is. This is the last chapter that follows John's canonical story I promise. Next chapter will start getting into the real story, but I wanted to make sure I included John's reaction to meeting Sherlock; plus I also wanted to make it clear that, even though this is a cross-over fic that will involve things like reincarnation and multiple lives and that kind of stuff, I do intend on staying as true to both fandoms as possible and keep things as believable as I can. Enjoy!**

* * *

I looked up at Ella Thompson from the armchair I had seated myself in. I wasn't ready for the impending conversation; I admittedly hated our therapy sessions. I understood that they were supposed to help me recover from the war and all, but so far, they had been anything but helpful. I couldn't help but feel a certain animosity in Ella, like she really couldn't give less of a damn about me, and she only put up with me because it was her job.

"Hello, John," she spoke up in a soothing voice. "It's nice to see you, how are you? It's been a while."

"It's been a week and a half," I said, annoyance slightly spilling into my words.

"Still, it's been longer than our usual sessions. How are you?" She repeated. "What's been going on?"

I straightened myself, trying desperately to lighten myself up. It was a recurrent battle I had to face every time I came here, just warming myself up enough to talk. I hated the talking part, but of course I wouldn't be here if I really thought my therapy sessions pointless. Perhaps it was just simply need of a friend that kept me coming, even if she was only a paid friend.

I willed myself to speak. "Nothing. Nothing's been going on." The dismay in my words was impossible to hide.

She adjusted the notepad in her lap and asked, "How have you been holding up recently? How's your blog coming?"

"Good, yeah… good," I answered insincerely.

Her pen met her paper as a small sigh escaped her lips. "You haven't written a word, have you."

"You just wrote 'still has trust issues,'" I said, glancing down at her notepad.

"And you just read my writing upside down. Do you see what I mean?" She pursed her lips and looked me straight in the eye, making her point.

She was right of course. About the trust issues. After the war, nothing had been the same. I didn't feel like I could trust anyone simply because I knew they couldn't understand me. They couldn't grasp the horror of being in a war, the heat of battle. I had forgotten what it was like to just be a normal person, not burdened by the memories of friends being slaughtered and the fragmented remains of fellow soldiers strewn across the battlefield. Images that would forever haunt my dreams and every waking breath. No. Nobody could possibly understand that.

"John, you told me a several weeks ago that you've been having incessant nightmares about the war. Do you want to talk about them?"

I hesitated, taking in a very deep breath. To be quite honest, I didn't know what I thought about them myself. Horrifying, yes, and they always brought back raw and deafening reminders of the intensity of the battlefield, the terror of Afghanistan. And then there was that… other place. The fantastical world where war was carried out not by guns or bombs but by swords and shields. The world I'd never seen before but perpetually appeared in every one of my dreams. I didn't know why, or what my subconscious was trying to get at, if it was trying to get at anything, but I couldn't escape that uncanny feeling the dreams—nightmares—would always leave me with. A feeling that could almost be described as nostalgia were it not for the complete terror or it all.

"John?" the therapist interrupted my thoughts, returning me from my reverie. "John, what's wrong?"

I laughed scoffingly at her words. "What's wrong?" I asked in a jeering tone, looking at her with disdain in my eyes. "What's wrong is that I'm a soldier. What's wrong is that I've killed people and I've watched my friends die. I've seen things th—" my tone faltered as a painful ball formed in my throat, and I had to hold back my frustrated tears. I looked back down at the ground, trying to clear my mind and settle my anger.

"John," Ella proceeded, "I understand that you're a soldier, and it's going to take a while getting used to civilian life. And I think that writing a blog about everything that happens to you is honestly going to help."

I looked up from the ground and stared the therapist in the eyes. "Nothing happens to me."

* * *

Mike Stamford walked me into a large room. The first thing I noticed was the overwhelming and exciting fume of chemicals, as though someone had spilled a gallon of cleaning liquid and left it to sit for days on end. Sundry devices and appliances littered the room, and the large center table was barely visible beneath all of the tubes, vials, and gadgets that occupied it. On the far end of the table stood a man, leaning over a slate of glass and working with some sort of chemical tool. He glanced up at us offhandedly as we sauntered into the room, and he resumed whatever experiment he was doing without paying us much attention.

I couldn't help but notice that the man was very well-dressed—a fact I found odd, considering that he was working in a lab. Not that I knew the slightest about proper laboratory dress code, but I suppose I considered it more along the lines of long, white lab coats and safety goggles, of which he had neither. He was a lean man, but not scrawny; well-built. He possessed a head of wavy, coffee brown hair that rested just above his concentrating eyebrows. Although a bit odd looking, he was appreciably handsome in his own way. An air of haughtiness lurked about him from his composed stature and competent demeanor. His indifferent nature to our recent entrance was strangely enchanting, and he immediately captivated my interest.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? I don't have service on mine," he asked impassively, without looking up from his current preoccupation. His voice was deep. Very deep; and it sent a bizarre chill through my body. On inquiry the man continued to explain that he didn't want to use the landline as he preferred to text. Something in his voice set off a mass of red flags in my subconscious, but I couldn't figure out why. He didn't seem dangerous or threatening in any way, though he did seem a bit cold. On speculation, I thought back to Ella's observation about my trust issues, and suddenly realized that this man was the first new face I had been introduced to in a very long time. Mike informed the man that he had left his phone in his jacket, so, to my own surprise, I offered him mine instead, dismissing the red flags as unprecedented and unwarranted.

I didn't really know why I gave him my phone; I was rather protective of my personal belongings, but I didn't think twice before handing it off to him. Perhaps I was just trying to open myself up a bit. I mean, how the hell did I expect to find a flatmate if I was going to be resistant to every person I encountered? Besides, this man seemed competent enough. He acknowledged me for the first time since I had walked into the room with a quick thank you. Mike, with the air of a marketer exhibiting his product, introduced me as John Watson as the man walked up to me, accepting my phone and quickly typing into the keypad.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" the man asked, continuing to tap away on my phone.

I was a bit bewildered by the abrupt question, and didn't understand how or where the question had come from. I gave a questioning look to Mike, who only responded with a smug smile. "I'm sorry?" I asked, turning my attention back to the man, thinking perhaps I had heard him wrong.

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" he repeated.

"Afghanistan," I answered, dumbfounded. "Sorry, how did you—?"

"Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you," he interrupted, handing back my phone and engaging in a short conversation with a young woman who had just entered. She handed off a mug to the man, before leaving again. "How do you feel about the violin?" He made no eye contact, but the question seemed to be directed at me.

I looked at Mike, still perplexed, but he responded with no more than a smirk even more smug than the previous one. "Sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?" He finally looked up at me. "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He ended with a tight grin.

I looked back at Mike. "Oh you—you told him about me?" I articulated carefully, thinking it was the only possible explanation for the man's strange behavior.

"Not a word," replied Stamford.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" I questioned, still keeping my eyes on Mike but directing my words towards the puzzling man.

"I did," responded the man, reaching for his coat and pulling it on. "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now, here he is with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

"How did you know about Afghanistan?"

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London," he continued, completely ignoring my question. "Together we might be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o' clock. Sorry, gotta dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He walked past me, heading towards the door, leaving me annoyed and still confused.

"Is that it then?" I asked, adamant to get an explanation from this bloke.

"Is that what?" he turned back around to look at me.

"We only just met, and we're gonna live in a flat together?"

"Problem?"

Was this guy even human? "We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name."

The man narrowed his eyes at me, not threateningly, but intensely, as though scrutinising me. "I know you're an army doctor and I know you've recently been home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him; possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he just recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid … So, enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He turned around to walk out the door, but hesitated once more to look back at me. "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." He ended with a smile and a wink before finally whisking off.

* * *

I sat down on my bed in my small apartment, exhausted from the long day, and ultimately, just trying to wrap my head around it. What the bloody hell happened today? It was a drastic change from my simplistic and monotonous life that I'd had to put up with ever since I'd come back from Afghanistan. It was… nice. Thoughts of the mysterious Sherlock Holmes flushed out the normally despondent introspections of my mind, and I couldn't help contemplating how this bloke was able to see so much about me, supposedly without any fore-knowledge.

Out of curiosity I pulled out my phone and checked sent messages to see what Mr. Holmes had texted to whoever it was that he had texted. I pulled up the top message which read: If brother has green ladder arrest brother -SH. If possible, this message sparked even more curiosity in me about this enigmatic man, and using my cane as leverage, I got up and walked over to the laptop on my desk. Pulling up a search engine, I typed in "Sherlock Holmes," figuring the name was rare enough that I could find something on him without too much trouble.

Immediately a myriad of promising sites popped up in my search engine, but the one that interested me most was an article that Mr. Holmes had apparently written himself. I skimmed through the article quickly, scoffing to myself about the absurd claims the man was making about being able to understand a man's drinking habits from the mud on his shoes or determine a woman's most prized possession by the subtlest glance of her eyes. It was outrageous. No one could be that clever. Then again he had somehow known that I had been in Afghanistan without having any fore-knowledge. How had he done that.

My thoughts lingered on the man a while longer, considering whether or not I should show up at the flat tomorrow. The man intrigued me, that was for sure, but I thought back to my first impression of him when I heard his voice for the first time. I felt like I had heard that voice somewhere before, but I couldn't pin down where. I couldn't think where I might possibly have met him before. Then again, London was a smaller city than people gave it credit for. But surely I would have remembered him, if indeed I had met him before; he seemed like a hard person to forget.

I thought of the many imaginable ramifications of moving in with this man. Of course, I didn't know him at all, but, as he so unmistakably revealed, he knew a great deal about me, though some of his details were a bit off. He reminded me too much of a psychic. Were those guys even real? I'd always thought they were just a sham. Besides, this guy didn't seem like the psychic type. He obviously had a job of some sorts, since he had been working in the lab and mortuary. If brother has green ladder arrest brother. Perhaps he worked with the police? Who else would have the authority to warrant an arrest like that?

I decided I'd find that out for myself tomorrow. The man fascinated me, and I wanted to learn more about him. Of course I didn't know whether or not I should like to move into the flat with him just yet, but I would at least like to visit, stick around for a while until I made my decision. Besides, what could go wrong?

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! If you liked it, please leave a review. If you didn't like it, go tell all the people that you hate about it and tell them to check it out; that way everyone's happy :) If you have suggestions/constructive criticism please let me know. I love hearing from my readers!**

 **Next update soon (hopefully)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Heyyyyy, so I know it's been a while since I updated, sorry, but here's the next installment, and I really do hope to start updating more regularly**

* * *

I learned very quickly that Sherlock Holmes was not an ordinary flatmate. For one thing, I never thought that life would be anything more than dull and painfully mundane after the war, but living with Sherlock changed that. I never thought my psychosomatic limp, as well as all of my other psychological ailments, could heal so easily, but living with Sherlock changed that. I certainly never thought that I would be able to tolerate living with an egotistical dickhead, but, along with practically everything about my life, living with Sherlock changed that too.

I quickly grew accustomed to Sherlock's strange quirks and mannerisms. He would hardly ever eat or sleep, especially on cases, which I found a bit distressing given my doctoral inclinations, but I did not interfere with him too much on the matter. With other hobbies of his, however, I was not so passive. Not rarely did I find severed body parts in our fridge (on one occasion I found a whole human head), which always left me wondering why the bloody hell I'd moved in with this lunatic in the first place. The flat was always alive and buzzing with some new experiment of Sherlock's (some of which I suspected myself of being the incognisant test subject). I often came home from a long day at the hospital—at which I was now employed—hoping to get some rest only to find the flat wreaking of electrocuted mice or perhaps microwaved deodorant (the latter of which I never truly learned the purpose of).

Sometimes I would look around our chaotic residence and see a nasty, dirty, wet flat, occasionally filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell; other times I would see a dry, bare, scanty flat with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat; but despite the unwelcome experiments that perpetually polluted our flat and the outlandish propensities of my partner-in-crime-fighting, I never considered leaving the place or abandoning my friend, because no matter how outre my life there tended to be, it was home, and that means comfort.

God, it'd been so long since I'd really had a home. Even before I went off to Afghanistan I didn't truly feel like I fit in anywhere. Perhaps that's why I'd left to begin with. But here, living with Sherlock, going on wild criminal pursuits, occasionally getting kidnapped (by either enemy or arch enemy), solving crimes (more accurately, standing by as moral support for Sherlock as he solved the crime, and I repeatedly saved his arse from said enemy/arch enemy), it all felt so natural. For once in my life I was finally right where I belonged.

Sure, this absurdity of a life could be dangerous, and often involved risking my neck for something as innocent as going out to get a jug of milk, but to be quite honest, it was the kind of thing that really made me feel alive. It wasn't until I moved in with Sherlock that I was finally able to realise that my psychosomatic limp wasn't caused by "Post Traumatic Stress;" it was caused by a complete and utter lack of excitement. That was what I really craved. Danger vitalised me, and the only "stress" I may have struggled with was the stress of being confined to the insipid monotony of life.

It was awful, before I met Sherlock. The depression, I mean. The days would plod forward, going nowhere, accomplishing nothing. I was a ghost in a man's body, hardly even alive. Some days, I wished I wasn't. Some days, I would look longingly at my revolver and think what a relief firing a bullet in my mouth would give me. But I refused to linger on those thoughts, because if I was nothing else, I was a soldier; and soldiers don't surrender.

Then came Sherlock, and all those thoughts were buried.

There was one thing, however, that I never got over from that period of my life: the nightmares. I was never able to fully rid myself of them. I wouldn't get them every night, but I still got them often. The oddest thing was that Afghanistan would make rarer and rarer appearances, and my dreams about this… _other world_ seemed to be getting more and more vivid. Even stranger were Sherlock's random manifestations in the dreams. I say "manifestations" because truthfully I never actually saw him, I only ever heard his voice: cold and menacing and terrible. I could understand why he might come off as cold and menacing in my dreams, but at no point in my life had I ever _feared_ the man like I did in my nightmares. It began when Donovan had said those haunting words: _one day we'll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there._ And there were always bodies. So many bodies laid bare by his hands. Bodies of humans, of animals, of houses; entire cities burnt to the ground surrounded by fire and his ethereal voice haunting the air: _I am fire. I am death._

Always the drama queen.

I kept quiet about my dreams. I considered on several occasions going to see someone about them, but after I met Sherlock, after I rid myself of that damned limp, I realised that I didn't ever want to see anyone about anything ever again. I guess I preferred to just ignore my problems and hope for the best. I never even told Sherlock about them; Sherlock was a great friend, but he wasn't exactly adept at seeing eye to eye with people.

You see, being friends with Sherlock Holmes was like playing a game of riddles because you never knew who was going to come out on top, and you always had to keep your mind alert for fear of missing something that could be detrimental to your notoriety. His opinions of people were directly correspondent to their level of competence, and given his high level of intellect, you can understand how his respect was rather difficult to maintain. His mind functioned like a computer that never stopped programming, computing, downloading, and deleting. If one were to write out everything that went on in that man's head they would likely have a full novel in less than a week (complete with charts, diagrams, and all).

Yes, Sherlock Holmes was a great man, and, despite his irritating inclinations and egocentric manners, he was the best friend I'd ever had, odd as that may be. Other people didn't understand why I put up with him. To them he was inhuman—a cold and calculating machine who possessed no filter for rude or impertinent comments and showed no regard for conventional decency; who used people to his own ends, whose social skills were atrocious, who often failed to understand the meaning of boundaries. In short he was a complete dick.

But to me, other people couldn't be more wrong. Sherlock wasn't a machine; on the contrary, he was more human than most people I've ever known. He was human because he was honest to the point of indecency. He was human because he didn't conform to social conventions for the sake of conventionality; he didn't try to hide who he really was human because he was passionate about his work, and he engaged himself completely without asking anything in return. And on top of all of this, and despite his detached demeanour, he was a friend who was loyal almost past the extent of human capacity, whether that meant taking a bullet for his friend or telling him how horrible he looked in red before he went out on a date wearing his new, red jumper.

He had a different way of showing affection.

* * *

It was during a rather stagnant time in our flat, when we were both quite bored with the lack of a good case, and Sherlock was beginning to resort to worthless experiments just for the hell of it, when we received a visit from a rather odd client. He was not odd in the sense that he looked or acted in any peculiar way; he was odd in that he seemed to resonate at a very different frequency from the rest of the world. Moreover, the moment he stepped into our flat, I had the strangest, nostalgic feeling that I _knew_ this man. That we had some sort of connection that nobody else shared. He left me with a feeling that was strikingly similar to the ones the nightmares left me with, only this was a good feeling. It was a _comfortable_ feeling.

When he entered our flat I saw that he was an old man, quite decrepit from obvious years of hard work, not physical, per se, but exhausting nonetheless. In his right hand, he held a walking stick that was intricately designed with carvings and symbols, and resembled more a staff than a crutch. He possessed an inexplicable aura of wisdom, as though he knew a great deal of things he didn't let on about, and when he looked into my eyes I felt like I could crumble into scattered fragments of broken security. It was ridiculous; I was the most composed and well-ordered person that I knew. Damnit, I was a _soldier_ for Christ's sake. But he made me feel like I was nothing more than a pawn in a game of chess that had been going on since the beginning of time. The weirdest part of it all was that he acted completely normal, just an average, everyday, elderly man.

I put on a polite smile and invited him in, saying "Would you like some tea, Mr., erm…?"

"Wilson," he responded, "Geoffrey Wilson. And yes please, I would be delighted to have some tea. Thank you." He ended with a polite, tight-lipped smile as I wandered into the kitchen to put on the kettle.

"Geoffrey, you say?" spoke Sherlock. "I know another Geoff myself. Please, do come take a seat." He motioned to our chair reserved specially for clients.

I wondered briefly who Sherlock was talking about, then groaned internally when I realised he meant Lestrade. "His name's Greg, not Geoff, you git." I chastised the detective

"Greg, Geoff, Gavin, it makes no difference to me," he rambled, waving his hand at me in an impassive gesture.

I gave an apologetic smile to our rather bemused looking client before leaving the kettle on the stovetop and taking a seat in my armchair next to Sherlock.

"Well?" urged Sherlock. "I assume you're here on a case, so get on with it. My time is precious and I prefer not to waste it doddling about uselessly. Speak."

I clenched my fists at Sherlock's unreserved impertinence, but to my relief, and surprise, our client only looked more amused than before.

"Well," Geoffrey Wilson began, his deep voice cracking with old age, "it all began when I was looking for someone to share in an investment." He paused for a moment, looking quite pleased with his particular choice of words, before continuing. "You see, my daughter, Dorothy, got engaged several months back. Her fiance, Ethan Howard, co-owns a business that sells electronics and spare parts for gamers and programmers. I honestly never understood half of the terminology he used, and admittedly did not have much mind for it at all, but when I found out that the business was running low on money, I decided to put an investment into the company to see that my daughter was well off. I can't just let my only child get hitched to a poor man, you know." I laughed internally at the notion of hearing the word "hitched" come out of this man's mouth.

"That was when I went to my friend, Mr. Christopher Kent, for help," he continued. "While I can honestly say that I am indeed a wealthy man, and in no great need of money, I do not have the money to fund a business like Mr. Howard's all on my own. I told Mr. Kent that if he should provide half the total sum of money I wished to invest in this business, that he should receive seventy-five percent of the profit. Now, normally I do not run the risk of partaking in a shareholding, but the Kent family and I go very far back, and I know Christopher very well and consider myself a good judge of his character. (I was very like a father figure to Chris growing up, since he lost his own father when he was only just a baby,)" he added as a side note. "So I decided it was perfectly safe to share a fund with Mr. Kent, and I put the money he leant me into an account that was accessible to both of us."

There came a whistling sound from the kitchen, and the conversation ceased temporarily as I got up to go make our tea. When I returned and we were all settled with our drinks, Sherlock continued the inquest. "So you shared in an investment with Mr. Kent. What happened next?"

"Well, all was going perfectly well, you see. I had decided not to tell Mr. Howard, the owner of the business, about the investment I had planned to make until I felt the time was right. It was nearing that time, however, when suddenly Christopher disappeared. He was nowhere to be found; he did not respond to any of my emails or phone calls, and when I finally went to visit his house, I only received an obscure explanation from his housekeeper that 'Mr. Howard has gone away,' and she would say nothing more. I was hit by a sudden stroke of fear that I had been misguided in my trust of Mr. Kent, but when I checked our investment account, I found that all of the money was still there. "

At this Sherlock perked up his ears a little. It wasn't necessarily a thrilling case, but a missing person always turned out to be somewhat of interest. And on top of the dead silence from cases we've been having recently, I knew that Sherlock was likely to at least look into this one.

"Missing, you say," prodded Sherlock. "And he left behind all of his investment money?"

"Well… not exactly.

"Explain."

"You see, it was several days, and I still hadn't heard a word from my friend, when today I found that all of the money from our account, including mine, had gone missing. When I asked the bank, they told me that Mr. Kent had taken it this morning!" Mr. Wilson ended in a tone that exaggerated the absurdity of the situation, a signature trait of the elderly.

"Pardon me for asking," I chimed in, voicing the question that I knew Sherlock must be thinking as well, "but why exactly did you come to _us_ for help? Did you not go to the police to investigate first?"

The man mumbled a bit before responding to my question. "I certainly would have," he said, "but for the strangest detail of this whole affair."

"Go on," said Sherlock, clearly struck with interest.

"Well, you see, when I first asked Christopher if he would take part in the investment with me, he had just returned from a business trip. I don't know where he had gone, but from the way he talked about it, I imagined it must have been some place without a great deal of televisions or electronics for that matter. I should probably inform you that Christopher is a jeweler; a family business, and it's the primary source of his wealth. Anyways, he had been gone around the same time that you, Mr. Holmes, became renowned for the famous Reichenbach Mystery. Several days ago, on the night of his disappearance, I asked him to have dinner with me at the local bar so that we could further discuss plans for the investment. He came to the bar, and we sat down to chat. He seemed to me at the time to be acting perfectly normal. The local news was playing in the background, when you, Mr. Holmes, appeared on the telly. He seemed interested and asked me who you were. Clearly he had not yet heard of you, so I explained your remarkable accomplishments to him. That was when your friend, John Watson, here, came on screen. I swear that I have never seen something so bewildering in my life. After taking a look at you," he said, making intense eye contact with me, "Christopher went quite loony. His eyes glazed over as if he had suddenly just seen a ghost. I asked Mr. Kent what was wrong, quite taken aback by his sudden, dazed manner. He began to mumble nonsensically, and glanced up at me, looking quite shocked, before running off into the blue. That was the last I saw of Mr. Kent before he went missing."

* * *

 **Hey, by the way if any of you actually know anything about how shared investments and whatnot work, especially in the UK, then please send me a PM or something because honestly, I'm just muddling my way through right now despite my inconclusive attempts to figure it all out**


End file.
